DCU: Fan Mail
by princessebee
Summary: In a drab, dreary, deadly place like Arkham Asylum, a fella has to make his own fun. Luckily for The Joker, fun tends to come to him. Warnings for some very strong themes, some language and some offensive epithets used.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

Wednesday morning in Arkham Asylum.

The mail van drove away from the delivery doors with a little extra gas. It was always the way – he drove up a little slowly, drove off a little too quickly. Keen to put the gothic monstrosity safely behind him for another twenty-four hours. Not once had he ever even gotten out of the van.

Rory couldn't blame him, really. He'd been working at Arkham Asylum for a little over six months and the joint was already under his skin. If it wasn't for the unusually high pay he received as a guard there, he might already have ditched the job.

Sorting the mail was one of the more pleasant tasks. Mainly because it didn't require any interaction, or even any proximity, to the inmates – for the most part. He and two others took care of it first thing in the morning when it came in every two weeks, grouping the mail into piles addressed to recipient. There was never very much, and it was all anonymously and safely concealed within sealed envelopes so none of them were ever subjected to whatever weirdness the inmates of the Asylum received or sent out.

The mail had already been scanned for explosives, sharp objects, powders, liquids, poisons, toxins and other miscellaneous booby-traps. In the past all the mail, both ingoing and outgoing, had been opened and read before being redirected; but the current staff had voted on preserving the privacy of personal correspondence, in conjunction with a few other minor adjustments to Asylum policy. They were constantly experimenting with little things like that, trying to assess if it had any affect at all on the inmates.

Of course, by staff, they meant the Asylum doctors. Hoi polloi like security was not consulted as to their feelings on such matters. But in this case, Rory was content. Although other guards had taken advantage of that sort of access to secure a few souvenirs for personal collections or to flog for a few dollars on eBay, Rory wasn't into that. He preferred not to know, as much as was possible. One of the other mugs who worked the mail with him – Bill – had been around when part of their task had been reading the letters addressed to and from the Asylum's infamous population.

"Gave me a peek into humanity I could've done with the curtains staying shut on," he'd rasped over a cigarette break one day, his prison-tattooed arms sun-browned and brawny, his eyes hooded and focused somewhere, far away.

That week they had a new kid on shift, having lost yet another guard to early retirement. He was full of bravado, the way young kids were these days, masking his nervousness beneath a veneer of anxious excitement at working at so notorious a place. Rory could already tell they were going to have to watch him in his interaction with the inmates – he was a prime candidate for underestimating them and being sucked into their ploys, seduced by their glamour. The inmates at Arkham were tricky in more ways than one, and most of them were crazy-smart as well. Rory had seen way too many good men go down at their hands – and he hadn't even made it through a year yet.

At any rate, the kid – Kenny – was at that point wondering out loud what it was that Pamela Lillian Isley had received in a mint-green A4-size envelope. Bill glanced up from the pile he was sorting and half-raised a bushy eyebrow.

"That's the National Rare Plants Appreciation Guild Newsletter," he said flatly. "She gets it every month."

Kenny's eyes were a little misty as he laid the envelope to one side. Rory and Bill exchanged a look, rolling their eyes. Poison Ivy's seductive charms extended beyond the realm of her pheromones. That is, until one got close enough to get a nasty rash – or a constricted throat.

"That's a big pile," Kenny nodded to a steadily growing stack of letters in all shapes and sizes by Bill's elbow. Bill snorted a little and tossed another envelope onto a smaller stack. Rory glanced up at the large pile and flinched. Many of the envelopes were in shades of green or purple and heavily decorated with images in crayon and marker, elaborate or simple, with a common motif of bright, smiling faces and grinning mouths.

There was a moment of silence as Kenny waited, his wiry arms uncertainly drawing another bundle of mail into his lap for sorting, his chocolate brown hair curling over his slightly dull eyes. Rory said nothing, just looked back down at his stack.

"The Joker." Bill finally replied, shortly, and Kenny's eyes widened, clearly impressed. "He gets a lot. Well, for a place like this anyhow."

Kenny's eyes flickered to The Joker's stack. He all-too-obviously wanted to touch some of it. Rory felt himself tense. Bill scratched the back of his head and shrugged. "He's always been a popular one. Gets it from all sorts. Lotsa freaks and poofs a'course. But mostly from women."

"Women, wow." Kenny was star-struck and Rory wanted to backhand him.

"Yeah," Bill's upper lip twitched in disgust. "Never could figure it."

Bill swept the assorted jumble of letters into a neat stack and laid them on top of a huge pile of newspapers crammed in a large mail bin. Kenny gestured towards it with a jerk of his head.

"All those newspapers too?"

The three of them looked at the assortment of publications: _Daily Planet, Gotham Times, Austin Chronicle, Las Vegas Sun, New York Post, Bludhaven Traveller, Daily Record, Jamestown Sun, City News Los Angeles, Central City Bugle, San Francsico Guardian, Kansas City Star, Detroit News; _and on it went. Rory had never bothered to ask. Didn't seem worth the wondering. But Kenny, of course, did.

"What's he use them all for?"

Bill shrugged again. "Can't say. Doctors haven't figured it either. A whole bunch of Feds were in once, combing through them every week, trying to work out what he was doing. Thought maybe messages in the personals, or something like that. Couldn't find anything. He's got his regulars, but every now and then he'll ask for some small county paper for a couple of weeks too, then lose interest in it."

Rory smiled wryly and quipped: "Maybe he's building himself a giant paper plane to fly outta here."

The three of them chuckled and the mystery was forgotten. They finished sorting the mail, then pushed back their chairs and stood up, Kenny with a spring and Bill with a groan and Rory with the crack of several joints in his spine. Bill gestured with a jerk of his head to Joker's bin.

"You want to do the honours today?" He queried Rory, but before he could answer, Kenny spoke up.

"Is it okay if I do it?" He stared at them both hopefully. Rory and Bill turned slowly to look at each other in silence, features fixed in an attitude of quiet resignation. "Please?"


	2. Chapter 1

**ONE**

Hey Joker Man,

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. Money flies like a certain long-underweared boy in blue we're all familiar with, right Jokester?

I'll cut right to the chase, amigo.

Here's the deal: me and my pal Buddy like to trawl estate auctions; pick up stuff for a song and flog it on eBay. Great way to make some extra cash without having to slave away at some summer job like a chump. Makes sense, right? Some of those old coots what die have whole attics and basements full of junk they never even knew would be valuable with a little spit shine and a new coat of paint. We make some pretty tidy change out of it. Not too shabby, right?

Anyway, we go over to this old codger's place who bit the dust recently and whaddya know, we strike gold. This fella has practically a whole room loaded with original Marx Brothers memorabilia, all of it in mint condition. I'm talking autographed photographs and original posters and sheet music, whole scrapbooks full of clippings, cigarette cards, even a few of those dollar bills with the Bros' face imposed over the top. The whole she-bang right? And me and Buddy, well we're big Marx Bros fans. Like, huge, right? We've got it cornered in our little town, we wrote the book on Marx-love. This is like… fanboy wetdream territory, right? And you wouldn't think anything could stop us from nabbing that sweet deal right then and there, right?

So me and Buddy, we're playing it cool, feeling out the guy's relatives, seeing if they know what they're sitting on, both going crazy in our brains trying to figure out how much we can each contribute to the load. This guy, he wasn't no flash piece, right? Small place, bit rundown, old geezer on a pension, not a lot of people showed up, family looks pretty clueless. Eventually we cut a deal with the son when what happens but the dead guy's old lady interrupts and shuts us down. Says it's all being donated to the local arts museum! The old bitch wouldn't even talk to us, just said that's what her old man would want! What does he care – he's dead! Right?

So me and Buddy, we thought we're write you, get your take on it. I mean, you're like, the _original_ Marx Bros fan, right? I saw that special they ran on you a month or so back on cable and it said those flicks are some of your faves, that you can recite them like they was the Gettysburg Address. So we figured – if anyone had any advice for us, it'd be you. If anyone could see our point of view – it'd be The Joker. You don't just live comedy, man, you are comedy. That's your whole purpose in life, right?

But yeah, that special - that was some awesome shit, Jokeroo. If you want something, you just take it, right? And why should this stuff be all locked up in some stinking museum when it could go to the homes of some big fans?

Buddy's been talking about going to a lawyer, trying to get them on the whole verbal contract thing. Like, first they committed to it. They can't go back on that. Work the system a little. Whaddya think?

I know you'd hate to think of good stuff like that going to waste.

Well, those are our principles – and if you don't like them… well, we have others!

Take it easy Your Royal Jokerly

Cal & Buddy

PS: what sort of sanity clause they got you on there in that asylum? Ha ha!

**OooOOoOOooo**

Hail, faithful Marxites, Cal & Buddy!

Tsk, tsk, tsk, my young friends, shame on you for allowing such a 'big score' to elude acquisition. And tut-tut too for so shamelessly throwing around quotes from the grand masters with such cavalier and dubious respect for the classics. Nothing so heinous as a witticism ripped from context and carelessly used in place of genuine repartee. Why don't you wait until you're old enough to know what to do with them, hrrrmmm?

But enough of that! All is forgiven, for it is clear to me that you are in earnest and furthermore, most sincere. One cannot hold your youthful inexperience against you. You have tried, and you have strived most admirably to persuade me as to the veracity of your devotion and I cannot use either the shoddy use of misappropriated witticisms nor the careless loss of so many valuable artefacts to a dusty and disused corner of an infrequently attended mausoleum convince me you are not indeed true adherents to the delightful and delicious antics of those legendary masters of mirth.

I assure you – you need not do more to convince me. I am convinced! Believe me, I am.

Now, my young friends – to your problem.

Such a shame, we can't rely on the legal system in this day and age. Justice is too rarely served and when served is often rare. Believe me, kiddies, I should know! Still, if there is no other recourse, then I suppose this is the path you must follow.

Of course there is always –

Nah. Forget it. You're too young for the likes of that. And while clearly you're both big fans, you're probably not committed enough to go that far. After all, what's an original signed poster of _The Cocoanuts_ at the end of the day when you weigh the risks up one against the other? (Oh sorry – have you seen that one? It was pre-MGM days. It often gets overlooked by the young because it is rather antiquated and slightly clumsy, though still quite brilliant!) Of course, as you so astutely note, I myself would stop at nothing to get my hot little hands on such a rare and exceptional item. But naturally, I could hardly expect the same from you! We can not all be so devoted to our passions. And I'm sure your parents wouldn't approve.

Well. Good luck with the court case. I'd ask how you're planning to pay your lawyer should you win, but – well. You understand.

Yours in jest,

**The Joker**

**OooOOoOOooo**

**Jamestown Sun**

_Column 8, p 60_

Thieves last night broke into The Jamestown Museum of Cinema and Theatre and stole a recently donated collection of valuable Marx Brothers Memorabilia. Museum Curator, Geraldine Bonner, was distraught, saying that the exhibition would've proven to be an incentive to tourists and locals and a boon for the museum which has been struggling to remain open due to a lack of visitors in recent years. Police are investigating.


	3. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The Joker:

You and me, we need to talk.

There's a lot we can talk about, you and me. I know it. I can feel it. You can feel it too, can't you? I know you can.

There's something between us. I know it.

Every since I first saw you on television, I've known. And I know you've known as well. How could you not? It's fate. It's destiny. You and me. We can make a difference. We can make the world see. We can make them all UNDERSTAND.

I've been waiting. Waiting for you to get in touch.

But you haven't. Why haven't you?

I know you could find me. You could find me easily. You know where I'm waiting.

So why are you making me wait?

Don't make me wait anymore. I've made the first move. I've reached out to you.

Now it's your turn. Your turn to listen to fate.

Waiting,

Genesis


	4. Chapter 3

**THREE**

To The Joker,

First of all, first thing I have to say to you:

You're a legend.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not into killing people or anything like that.

But I'm an anarchist.

I can't stand this whole stupid Capitalist conformist system we have set up in this goddamn country.

I mean, it's such bullshit. It's completely superficial, totally mindless. It exists because most of the population are such goddamned sheep they're afraid to think for themselves, or work for themselves, or decide for themselves. Anything! They just do what they're told and keep their mouths shut. Makes me sick!

I'm not like that though. I'm a member of our Anarchist Society here in my hometown. Well, we try and make a difference. Just little changes at a time. We put in an attendance at council meetings and have protests and stuff like that.

I know that probably sounds totally lame to you, because YOU are an anarchist in the purest sense! In fact, you're almost kinda like the PERFECT anarchist. The only rules you obey are your own – if you've even got rules that is! And you're not bound even by them. You refuse to let societal standards box you in, refuse to let them suppress your spirit. That takes guts, man, the sort of guts most people in this world would never have. I respect that.

Anyway, recently the city council had a memorial put up in the town centre for all the locally grown troops who've been killed in Afghanistan. Now, I'm not saying they deserved to die, but I seriously object to a great fucking big edifice of marble glorifying the totalitarian, fascist, freaking hair's-breadth from dictatorship system that we are practically forced to live in. I mean, if they _have_ to have to have that sort of thing, do they have to put it in the _town centre_ where we're ALL forced to look at it?

Me and the Anarchist Society protested of course, but we were ignored. Of course. Hard to soar like an eagle when you're surrounded by pigeons! Fuckers.

Anyway, I just had to get that off my chest. I figured you'd understand.

In solidarity,

Wes

**OooOOoOOooo**

Wes, my impetuous young admirer,

What is that Voltaire quote our countrymen are so fond of tossing about like nickels? Ah, yes:

"_I may disagree with what you have to say, but I shall defend, to the death, your right to say it."_

(Although there are as many variables of it as there are creative ways for old Clint to share the truth, eh Wes?)

At any rate, it is a popular and oft-heard little phrase in this great golden country of ours, but one that is rarely said with any real meaning. Indeed, those who say it are the most likely to lack the courage of their convictions. And those most likely to say it just happen to be a good seven-eights of the population!

You and me against the world, eh Wes!

But what of your Anarchist Compatriots, you cry? Pish posh. If they held the courage of their convictions, they would have acted by now.

Indeed, dare I insinuate same of you?

Ah, but of course, retaliation and retribution for that which we wreak is always the price we must pay, n'est-ce pas?

We who enjoy truth, freedom and the American way under that bright ole star-spangled banner are always assured of one thing: Liberty, my friend. Liberty to express ourselves as we see fit.

On the proviso we don't go too far!

Why, simply observe yours most truly as a prime example of this shameless hypocrisy and flawed rhetoric. And, indeed, look no further.

But… is this not a price worth paying? I say unto you, Wes: most assuredly, it is.

For no matter how harsh the chains that bind me, no matter how high the walls that enclose me, no matter how black the pit they cast me into for behaving in no less a way than my nature dictates, I am always able to carry close to my bosom the singularly gratifying knowledge that:

_To mine own self, I have been true!_

You can imagine Wes, the comfort and satisfaction that brings me in the darkest depths of night when my cells walls echo with the sound of my thudding heart. And no matter the tortures they devise to subdue me, I rest easy in the knowledge they never shall suppress me – I will always triumph for with The Joker, there is no compromise, Wily-Wes, not a jot of it!

Great change does not happen gradually, but all at once, like a Tsunami of radicalism. It must explode, it must erupt, and it must have dire consequences. It does not ask permission, it demands – it is brutal and merciless and it overcomes in broad, gasping blows. It is a force of nature and it wrests control from the status quo, watering the earth with blood and marrow that new life may bloom! Why from such savagery did the ideals of our own so-called mighty nation rise!

Have they been totally lost?

For you, and for your comrades, I suggest nothing less than a grand gesture. Make yourselves heard. Make yourselves known. Be honest. Be inventive. Be _primal._

And remember, Wesley –

_Be the change you want to see in the world!_

Love and kisses,

Comrade J

**OooOOoOOooo**

**Little Rock Gazette**

_**Community News, p 24**_

_Vandalism Sullies Memory of Lost Soldiers_

Rebecca Brown

The newly erected War Memorial, commemorating those Little Rock soldiers who have lost their lives fighting in Afghanistan was last night severely vandalised.

The vandals desecrated the memorial with paint, writing obsence slogals and defacing the monument. The monument was smeared with faeces and home-made explosives were placed at its top and bottom, causing irrepairable damage. Flying debris caused by the explosions also damaged the nearby Town Hall.

County Mayor, Chester Lewis, stated that the memorial would have to be replaced in its entirety but could not commit to a date as the budget would have to be reviewed.

Families of the deceased soldiers commemorated on the memorial are distraught.

Several youths have been arrested in relation to the vandalism and are being held for police questioning.


	5. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

Dear Mr Joker,

Greetings and salutations! How are you? I hope that your latest sabbatical within the walls of Arkham Asylum is treating you well and that they have improved the quality of food since last you were there. I am knitting you a new pair of winter booties, in your favourite colours, lavender and mint. Hopefully they will keep the chill off those lovely white feets of yours when the weather gets colder, especially if that Mr. Freeze is in residency at the same time.

Well, since the last time we corresponded, I'm sorry to say I have not the happiest of news. As you know, I live in a beautiful and unspoiled country town right in the heart of Utah. We are a blessed people with a simple way of life. The kind of place where you can still leave your door unlocked at night and wave howdy to your neighbours in the morning.

Unfortunately, our little township is becoming increasingly infested. No, it's not the crops that have been afflicted, nor the livestock. It's not even lice on the heads of our children. It's something far more insidious and vile than any of that. Something that threatens the pure simplicity of our way of life.

It's called "diversity". Or sometimes "multi-culturalism". But it is more accurately understood in our township as what it truly is: "invasion!"

One by one we are watching good, all-American businesses being taken over by inferior foreign copies. My friend Jenny, who has her own nail salon, is losing business to the Asian imitation because they're charging half what she does – and for a poorer service! No less than three women I know have come out of there with a fungal infection.

Our children are obliged to go to school with grubby, ill-bred and uncivilised children from all sorts of back-water countries, where there is often not even any sort of sewage system, let alone adequate medical care or appropriate standards of cleanliness. There is even a family of Africans here now – what about AIDS? It makes me wonder why our government, which claims to have our best interest at heart, is not considering these things when allowing newcomers into the country. Well, I can tell you that I am thinking of these things and I am worried and deeply concerned for the future of our nation.

As you can tell, Mr. Joker, this is causing me a lot of sleepless nights. Why, last night I dropped four stitches on your booties, so anxious I have been about all of this!

On the other hand I have a lot more time to knit now that my alterations business is being run to ground by the shoddy "el cheapo" service some of those Latinas are hocking now. And let me tell you, that's not all they're hocking, if you'll pardon my vulgarity.

My own Uncle's fruit and vegetable market is now running neck to neck with a Greek business whose prices are so cheap their stock must be only a day away from rot. And now that the Indian Curry House has opened on Maine Street, it's impossible to go to the Steakhouse for dinner without choking on the fumes of all those disgusting and irritating spices.

I ask you, Mr. Joker – what is this country coming to?

What makes it all the worse is that no one is prepared to do anything about it. We're being flushed into a toilet filthy with the mess of a thousand other cultures and those who should be looking after us, ensuring our safety and protection, seem to be oblivious. It strikes me right to my very heart.

Hopefully the next time I write I will have happier news.

Affectionately yours,

Margery

**OooOOoOOooo**

My sweetest Margery,

Ooh, my toes are positively curling in anticipation of receiving those booties! You're far, far too kind to me, my dear, sweet little Margy-cakes.

But I am indeed most concerned their arrival may be delayed due to the situation that is causing you so much vexation, my dear. Four dropped stitches you say! It must be serious!

How it turns my stomach to think of my sweet Margy-poo, fighting the good fight, only to continually be loosing to the drudge and dreariness of the great unwashed, her sensitive spirit being steadily crushed by the ignorant, obliged to rub elbows – to say nothing of shoulders, hips, knees and toes – with simpletons and savages.

Why, the number of times I have ordered take-out from some "exotic" ethnic joint only to find it putrid with stray hairs and flakes of skin, to say nothing of the dubious quality of much of the meat used – well I shouldn't continue along this path, I wouldn't want to upset my dear Margery.

Have you noticed any pets missing in the neighbourhood?

I am many things, Margery, as you well know. But one thing I am, above all else, is an American. Born, bred and buggy but _never_ blended. It is a status I hold with pride. I support American, buy American, steal American and destroy American!

Many things I have been accused of in my life, but no one may ever say that I am not, in my heart, a true patriot!

And why should I not be? Are we not the greatest nation upon this earth? Have we not the lifestyle that all other countries envy? Are we lacking for anything – be it food, or shelter, education, medical benefits – well, never mind about that last one. The point is, America is great, America is mighty and sadly, everyone wants a piece of that pie. Even worse, they're not prepared to work for it. Or, if they are, they work for a lot less and steal jobs from under the thumbs of good, honest, true, hard-working Americans – like yourself and friend Jenny and Uncle dear.

And what else do they bring as a blight upon us but disease and sickness! Did you know the rate of HIV in Papua New Guinea is now comparable to that of Africa? And that it's mainly the young African boys transmitting it? I do so hope there's no youths in that family you mentioned – apparently they have the _silliest_ notion that, to put it delicately, a union with a virgin will cure them. And let's not even talk about the way those Muslims treat their women. And the sorts of stories you read nowadays, of them kidnapping our beautiful white women and forcing them to return to their wretched countries as kept wives. As for those sordid Latinos and their penchant for beating and bruising their defenceless spouses – well, it makes me shudder, sweetie, it really does.

Margery, you have a young daughter, do you not? Forgive me for not inquiring as to her health sooner.

Margery, honey cakes, it is indeed unfortunate that those who went before us knew how to deal with such situations yet no more is this option open to us. They called it "ethnic cleansing". And how truly cleansing it was, like a raging fire through an overgrown forest, culling back the dead and useless and overgrown, leaving behind it the impenetrable purity of ash and beneath that ash new, stronger, cleaner buds waiting to bloom. Yes, like a match to an oil-soaked rag so too did their efforts spark and light up their terrain, raging with the flames of passion and courage, razing the contaminated to the ground in a blaze of glory; ferocious, all-consuming and so, so, so very pure…

Yes, what a pity such ways were left behind us.

There's always a smile in my heart for you,

Joker

**OooOOoOOooo**

**Zion Lodge Tribunal**

_**Local News p 10**_

_Fire Destroys Local Business_

Robert Henley

The Express Nails Salon in downtown central Zion Lodge has been completely destroyed in a fire the police are treating as suspicious.

The blaze was noticed late last night around ten o'clock pm by neighbouring business owner Fred Hughes who had been working late in his office. Mr. Hughes immediately alerted the fire department but by the time of their arrival the flames had taken hold, having come into contact with the highly flammable chemicals used in the application of acrylic nails.

The Express Nails Salon was a thriving new business characterising the success of recent immigrants to Zion Lodge. Run by local Korean-born family, the Hwangs, the Salon had become especially popular amongst residents living on the outskirts of town for their inexpensive prices and willingness to do housecalls for no additional charge.

The Salon had been criticised by a number of other local business, in particular competing Beauty Salon, Desert Flower Nails & Beauty, for its rates, which have been varyingly described as "unsustainable" and "suspicious" by both Desert Flower owner Jenny Simpson and local seamstress Margery Turner. Accusations of unhygienic working standards and recycled equipment leading to fungal infections have thus far proved to be unsubstantiated.

The resentment towards the Express Nail Salon is typical of the city's current sentiment towards the increasing migrant population, who are regarded as competition to established local businesses.

The Hwangs are undergoing questioning by the police, who have declined to comment as to whether or not the Hwangs are considered suspects, or confirm if the fire was caused by deliberate arson.


	6. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

The Joker:

I am still waiting.

Why have you not yet made contact?

Why are you defying fate?

You know as well as I do what our destinies are.

It makes no sense for you to resist. We are being inexorably drawn together. Our lives are becoming intertwined. Our purposes will ultimately unite as one.

We are that we are.

Do not delay any longer. I await your message. You know where to find me.

As ever faithful,

Genesis


	7. Chapter 6

**SIX**

To The Joker:

The Eastborrough Baptist Church extends its apologies to you for mistakenly lumping you in with the faggots destined to burn in hell for their crimes against God and nature.

It is a welcome relief that you are not guilty of this most disgusting and heinous of all sins and the Church asks you to forgive us for painting you with that foul brush.

For the Eastborrough Baptist Church believes that you are a messenger from the Almighty Himself, one of His Angels of Death sent to punish America for its wretched crimes and for allowing nature and God's law to be so thoroughly perverted without the right retribution.

Death must strike down all fags and perverts. The crime of sodomy should be treated as no less than a capital offence. Because America fails to heed God's will, God has no choice but to smite us down Himself.

The Eastborrough Baptist Church also wishes to congratulate you on your happy union with Miss Quinn. Whilst God's finger is pointed through you, we are sorry to say she will also burn in Hell unless she repents for her crimes, however.

We would also like to alert you to the fact that one of the fag bars here has displays of men they call "style" icons inside its filthy windows and that you are one of them. The fag club itself is disgusting and a disgrace to all standards of decency, allowing these perverts and sodomites to flaunt themselves on the streets and showing off their foul depravity in a stomach churning display. The WBC pickets every Friday night outside and this Friday we will be calling for them to remove the images of you and recognising you as the embodiment of God's righteous anger.

Sincerely,

Frank Phillips

Pastor, Eastborrough Baptist Church

**OooOOoOOooo**

To The Eastborrough Baptist Church:

Hey, no offence taken. It's true I do have a flair for the theatrical, but to do God's work, one must bring a sense of flavour to the proceedings. Can't be letting the Big Man down, can we? And if Moses can part the Red Sea to show His might, I'm sure I'll be forgiven my little… quirks!

It's a wise and enlightened group indeed who so righteously acknowledge my role as the GREAT COSMIC JOKE, though Angel of Death will work in a pinch too. I've always been a messenger of many hats after all (though I must admit to a preference for Harbinger of Doom – goes so well on a sunny Sunday afternoon, wouldn't you agree? I know it should be a day of rest, but what can I say, I'm a workaholic!)

But enough of that. Let's cut to the chase. Namely, your Church and its lack of true action in spreadin' the word of the Lord.

Now, don't get me wrong. You've been doing a fine job over there, making people aware of the fact that our Creator HATES FAGS. Great sense of style, by the way. Small words, mostly single syllable – no pussy-footing around, just cutting to the key issues. GOD HATES FAGS. Got a real ring to it. GOD HATES FAGS. Works as a baseline. You could really tap your toes to it. I like it! You look good on television too, Frankie. And you never miss a media op to make your message known – all admirable qualities to be sure.

But talk is cheap, son. Actions speak louder. Can you truly be content with mere words?

The Almighty isn't. He doesn't want to HEAR His word repeated ad nauseum. He already knows what He thinks on the matter.

He put the faithful on the earth for a reason: To make it HAPPEN.

I know you, in your fervour and passion to do God's will, must be positively itching in your underdaks to take some REAL ACTION.

So why are you hesitating?

I don't mind sharing that God is pondering it a little too. Yes, yes we speak on occasion. It's not usually necessary, we're just _that _in-sync, but we appreciate the opportunity to catch up for a gas-bag now and then.

So pass the message on for me, will ya?

The Big Guy told me it's an important one and He thinks you guys are kinda pulling your weight at the mo. It's time to put your wrath where the honey is. Think Biblical, my friend. To put it plainly:

HE WANTS THEM SMITED, SMOTE AND SMITTEN!

I've heard tell He works in mysterious ways and as His finger here in the ole U.S. of A, I'm pointing at YOU.

THE Joker

**OooOOoOOooo**

**Central City Bugle**

_**State News p7**_

_Three In Intensive Care After Protest Turns Into Riot_

Robin Mitchell

Three men are in a critical condition in Eastburrough Central Hospital this morning after the Eastburrrough Baptists Church's traditional protest outside the Manacle Bar turned violent.

The Manacle Bar, a popular venue for homosexual men, has frequently been the focus for attacks from the extremist independent church, members of which rally outside the bar every Friday night carrying placards bearing slogans such as "Homosexuality Death" and "Fags Die, God Laughs" and chanting "God Hates Fags".

The three men, whose identities have not yet been released by the police, left the bar around midnight and one of them reportedly shouted at obscenity towards the protestors. The protestors retaliated by attacking the three men, beating, kicking and punching them severely as well as bashing them with the placards.

An eyewitness to the attack claims one of the women present screamed: "We are here on behalf of the Angel of Death!" which was cheered by her peers just before the protestors began the assault. This has not been confirmed by investigators at the scene.

Reportedly, the attack on the victims did not stop even after they lost consciousness and was not halted until police arrived on the scene some ten minutes later and arrested the protestors. It is believed several officers of the law also sustained injuries attempting to control the situation.

No further details as to the victims' conditions have been released, except that they are being treated in intensive care.


	8. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

joker

you are a man of POWER. you understand STRENGTH.

you are a man. you are a great man. a powerful, STRONG man.

i want to be as YOU are. I want to have your confidence. Your POWER. your strength.

as i walk down the street i keep my head bowed. i dare not look up. i dare see nothing but the pebbles at my feet. i am CRUSHED. crushed and humiliated and ashamed by my lack of manliness.

my manhood has been stolen from me. stolen by them.

i do not look up for all around me they are there. they are all around me. with their smell and their hair and their eyes, staring at me. teasing me. LAUGHING at me.

everywhere i go they are. they are there, surrounding me. they taunt me. they flaunt themselves in garments of silk and lace, in scraps of fabric that don't even cover their legs, they don't cover their arms or their necks. they paint themselves and spray themselves with scent, like animals. they are always laughing. they are always screaming to be noticed.

they screech like harpies for the attention of men but when they have it they REJECT it. they demand it only so that they can refuse it. inch by inch BIT BY BIT they take over our place in OUR world, they are worming their way into all corners once sacred to men and they tease and tease, always tease and always refuse. they beg for it with their eyes flirting and scraps of cloth clinging to their VILE bodies and deny it, always always deny. they blame us. for all things. they blame us for not taking care of them for caring for them too much for not giving them work for giving them too much work for not pleasuring them for wanting them too much to be in control to be controlled. they are deliberating confounding and confusing us. it is part of their agenda. part of their agenda to consume us to rule over us to twist the natural order of all things.

they are taking our manhood every day they SUCK us a little drier. soon they will not even let us be born with it it will be stolen before we even leave their contemptuous and tempting bodies.

i want to be a man. a man like men once were. a man like you are. you are cowed by no one. you are FEARED by all. you are the kind of man that women desire. if more men acted as you they would not be rising against us. teach me your ways that i can overcome their treachery.

george

**OooOOoOOooo**

To be a man is a simple matter, my tortured acolyte:

A man takes.

He does not hesitate.

He does not question himself.

He does not waver, quiver, or quaver.

He acts.

When you hunger, do you not eat? When you thirst, do you not drink?

The nature of a man is, at its core, a most primal beast.

It is man's place to be strong. To be the aggressor. To take what he knows is rightfully his.

The truth is that women do not respect a man who is weak. They laugh at him. They laugh at you, George. They do. I think you know they do. They flicker their gaze upon you as you walk past them with your head bowed and your shoulders stooped and they must stifle their giggles at the sight of your patheticness. As they meet up with their girlfriends on street corners they point to your hulking frame and together they laugh and ridicule you, snorting contemptuously at your all too apparent lack of virility.

They make that little pinkie-finger gesture to each other and snicker into their perfumed bosoms. You know the one I mean? The one that insinuates you might be somewhat lacking where it counts?

They're doing that to you, Georgie.

If you want their respect, you must _earn_ their respect.

But to do this you cannot play the new games they are imposing. You must return to the ones of old. The ones that have proven, tested and tried, over and over and over again.

If you are unable to assert yourself, you will forever be the puny, pathetic little worm deserving of their despisation. The men of the world have been too lenient in recent times, and we wonder why they will no more respect us nor allow themselves to be governed by us! We have been weak and question why we are not taken seriously?

Well, I say "we", but of course I mean, "you" as in you, George, and the rest of our sex of which I am almost ashamed to be a member of in this day and age, so emasculated and castrated (figuratively speaking) we have become.

The truth is, they are testing us. Women have grown dismayed at our ineffectualness and weakness. They are trying to prompt a response from us, some sign of decisiveness, of the old power we used to hold. They are trying to provoke us into action and yet – we seem to be ever more cowed.

Why? When they are so clearly trying to provoke us into action do we go ever more to ground? Are we no more what we were – capable of rising to such a challenge?

You have a choice, George. You can be cowed. Or you can conquer.

Only a real man can make that decision.

You know they want it. They know they want it. They're just waiting for you to make the first move.

Show 'em what you got, Georgie.

Let's go out for steak sometime,

J.

**OooOOoOOooo**

_**San Francisco Guardian, **_

_**Current Affairs, p3**_

_Serial Rapist Apprehended_

Jessica Lowe

Police last night arrested the man they believe may be responsible for a series of brutal rapes which have taken place over the last three months.

Based on evidence gathered from several of the victims, the SFPD intercepted the suspect, George Sanders, as he was returning to his residence after work. Whilst no formal statement has been issued at this time, an insider on the police force confided that they were confident that had finally secured the culprit, after a barrage of criticism for failure to apprehend him sooner.

The victims, all aged between 19 to 26, lived largely in the Bay area, where a curfew was recently issued to all resident women as panic began to spread through the city. The attacks were all conducted at night, the attacker pouncing on the women in isolated areas before dragging them into the back of a van where the attacker threatened them with a large serrated knife as he carried out the assaults.

The police have previously stated that the attacks seemed largely random and unplanned, lending difficulty to their investigations and ability to apprehend the rapist sooner.

The attacks were extremely brutal, with all victims sustaining severe internal damage as well as being subjected to bashings. The police profile released stated that the rapist most likely held deep-seated resentment and hatred towards women and was probably socially maladjusted and unsuccessful in relationships. This profile fits Mr. Sanders, a single man of 46 who has been remarked upon by associates as being extremely shy and awkward around women.

Police were tipped off to suspicious behaviour by one of Mr. Sanders' neighbours and it is believed that forensic evidence collected from the victims led to the warrant being issued.

Local women's groups spoke out against the curfew saying that it permitted the abhorrent behaviour of the rapist to be normalised and called for stronger action by the police force. "It is unfortunate and unacceptable that in this day and age the victim is still being held responsible," said the Women's Crisis Centre Spokesperson, Martha Swift, in a statement released last week.


	9. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

The Joker:

You continue to fail to acknowledge me.

Do you not consider me worthy because my name is not known as yours is?

That is a mistake. A grave mistake, for you to make.

It is true my name is not known yet.

But soon it will be.

Soon it will be whispered with the same fear and respect that yours is.

Soon it shall be murmured in the same breath as yours!

Do you still not believe?

Will you still refuse to see?

I am growing tired of waiting. Soon, I will be forced to act.

You will see how worthy I am then.

This is your last chance to reply.

Genesis


	10. Chapter 9

**NINE**

Dearest Joker,

You don't know me. Well, why would you? I'm nobody.

Not like you. You're somebody. You're great. Everyone knows who you are. Everyone knows about what you do. And everyone respects you. Everyone.

Nobody respects me.

I guess I'm not getting off to a good start. Well, I guess I don't really know how to start. Why would someone like you be interested in someone like me? Why am I even writing to you?

I don't know. I just felt like I had to. In my Contemporary Cultures and Social Studies class we read this book by Dr. Scott Bartholomew – _The Joker: Journey Into The Mind of a Psychopath. _Have you read it? Do you mind being called a psychopath? Does it bother you what Dr. Bartholomew says about you in it or do you think it's funny?

But anyway, when I read it I felt so… so awakened, I guess. Don't laugh. Well, I guess you would anyway. You probably think this is all pretty funny so far right? I guess I am just a big joke.

That's it, you see. I'm just one, big, fat joke. I'm seventeen years old and I already feel like my life is over. I have no friends. I'm failing school. My parents ignore me. Yeah, I know, you're probably just rolling your eyes and dismissing this as emo bullshit. But it's all true.

My guidance counsellor tells me I need to be more approachable, stand up straighter, talk to people more, smile at them. She doesn't understand it's not that easy! It's not easy when you're fat and awkward and have bad skin and frizzy, freaky hair and whenever people look at you they start to laugh and whisper to each other and they've all been doing that since second grade.

She says if I just applied myself I could get good grades, but I'm stupid. She doesn't get it. I've always been stupid. My mother has been telling me since I was just a kid how stupid I am. And my dad… well he couldn't care less. He barely notices I'm alive half the time. When he does he's obviously embarrassed by me.

I'm supposed to be choosing colleges to apply to and I keep putting it off because I just wonder what's the point. I won't be any good at anything. I'll just let everyone down. I won't have any friends there either. I'm just going to wind up working at friggin' Burger King for the rest of my life anyway.

To tell you the truth, sometimes I wonder if there's any point in going on. I mean – what have I got to live for? Really?

Maybe you can tell me?

Because sometimes it feels like life is nothing more than a joke.

And Dr. Bartholomew wrote that's what you think. Is that true?

You seem to understand. You seem to understand there's really nothing in life worth living or fighting or working for. Not really.

Or is there?

If anyone would know, I think it would be you.

Can't you please tell me?

Love from your humble admirer

Tammy

**OooOOoOOooo**

My sweet, sweet, sweet Tammy,

How very wise of you to write to your loving Uncle Joker in your time of need. You've touched me, Tammy darling, truly you have. You've touched me in a spot deep down inside of me, a warm, wet spot that positively glows to be thought of by your dear little self in such affectionate terms.

Alas, I can offer you no consolation in regards your plight.

The sad fact is, life is a joke. Life is meaningless. No, there's no point to any of it all, not to the struggle or the bitter fight or the wretched clawing at the last flapping shreds of what remains of a pitiful existence.

At least… not for many of us.

Your classmates, the smart ones they will go onto prosperous careers in business. Perhaps they will be great innovators, inventors or trailblazers. The beautiful ones, they will go onto secure partnerships and glamorous pursuits, perhaps as models or actors or even airline stewards! Their lives will be exciting and rich, fulfilling and varied. Pointless, true, but nonetheless ripe with delight and pleasure and most likely a dear little two-storey place in the suburbs with a couple of kids and a station wagon with a happy, roly-poly puppy.

The question you must ask yourself, my dear little Tam-Tam, is – what of you?

Can you envisage for yourself such a future?

I rather got the feeling you could not.

What then, sweet Tiddly-Tam? Do you simply continue to eke out a miserable existence in servitude to your peers? Do you accept your lot and acquiesce humbly to it?

When you lie in your bed at night and shut your eyes do you tingle with the promise of the future or does it open before you like a great cavernous pit, readying itself to swallow you whole, devour you into its darkness, consuming you and feeding on your afflicted flesh until there's nothing left of you but bone?

Perhaps, my lovely little Tam, you are simply more in touch with your lot than most are.

Really, this is a gift, my dear. So many never realise until it is too late. Until they are forty with varicose veins and sagging breasts, phlegmatic coughs and squinting eyes, still waiting tables before heading home to the bachelor apartment on the ground floor of a tenement in a suburb where the night screams with the sound of sirens blaring, talking to the television sets just to stay in practice.

You should consider yourself blessed, Tammy. Such a fate does not await you. No, not with your insight. Not with your sweet, precocious wisdom.

You have looked at your life and seen it for what it is. I admire you, Tammy. I do.

And because you are so deeply attuned to the reality of what awaits you, I know that you know what you must do. I have that faith in you, my darling Tam. You know what needs to be done to ensure you will not become one more in the useless, drudging masses that so infest this fair planet. Go forth and do it, Tammy. Do not be afraid, do not hesitate, do not second-guess yourself. Your choice is the right one – the only one that makes any sense. My thoughts are with you.

All of my love and fond farewells,

J

**OooOOoOOooo**

**New York Post**

_**Breaking News p 2**_

_Teen Student Commits Suicide on High-School Basketball Court_

Deborah Murray

High-school student, Tamsin Leigh was yesterday found hanging from the basketball hoop of Saint Maria High's gymnasium.

Miss Leigh apparently used a ladder from the utilities closet to climb up to the hoop, from which she hung a noose made from a skipping rope belonging to the school.

She was found at approximately 3.15pm when the school's basketball team entered the gymnasium for pratice.

Although the basketball coach, Ronald Hagen, and later paramedics tried to revive her, they were unsuccessful.

The school's guidance counsellor, Jessica Brown, said of the victim: "She was a quiet girl, very shy and reserved. She did not have many friends and was showing signs of mild depression and anxiety. But nothing she ever said or did suggested she was thinking of killing herself."

Miss Leigh's parents have refused to comment.

Initial examination suggests that Miss Leigh did not suffer the broken neck common in hanging cases, and instead died from asphyxiation caused by the pressure of the rope on her throat.

A full investigation is pending, but police state that at this time they have found no evidence of foul play.


	11. Chapter 10

**TEN**

The Joker:

You have squandered your last opportunity.

I will wait no more.

Watch for my sign.

Soon you will understand how serious I am.

I will prove myself to you.

I will make a gesture you will not be able to ignore or refuse.

You cannot deny fate.

Genesis.

**OooOOoOOooo**

**Las Vegas Sun**

_**Headlining Story, p1**_

_Crazed Woman Murders 15, Injures 25 in Attack on Casino_

Casey Rowntree

15 are dead and another 25 are injured in what is an apparently random attack on The Joker's Wild Casino on the Las Vegas Strip.

The murders occurred last night at approximately 11.30pm when a woman entered the casino armed with a semi-automatic assault rifle. She indiscriminately opened fire on the guests, killing three of the security staff and wounding a further two as they moved to prevent the woman from entering.

Amongst those killed included a family of four with two small children, an elderly couple celebrating a birthday and three young women on a hen's night, including the bride-to-be. A young man was also trampled in the stampede which followed the attack. A full list of victims will be released later this afternoon.

The woman, who has been identified as Genevieve Fawkes, an employee in the Casino's Punchinello Bar & Bistro, fired upon the panicking crowd in random bursts until the police arrived. In the ensuing stand-off, Ms Fawkes, aged 24, was fatally shot and died on her way to the hospital.

Ms Fawkes had been working at the Casino for the last two and a half months, but had not formed any close friendships with her co-workers, although all reported that she was a bubbly, likeable personality who did not seem troubled in any way. Her direct manager, Jeffrey Brown, says that Ms Fawkes was "a punctual and reliable worker who was friendly to all the guests and generally received large tips". He claims Ms Fawkes had no reason to bear a grudge against the Casino, and indeed, had been promoted to Head Waiter the previous week.

No apparent motivation for this crime has as yet been identified and the Casino has been temporarily shut down while police conduct a full investigation.

The Casino, which derives its theme from the infamous sociopathic career criminal known only as "The Joker", has alternatively been criticised as a glorification of one of history's most ruthless murderers and a tongue-in-cheek pastiche of killer pop culture.

This is not the first time notoriety has visited the controversial Casino. In its opening week of June 2001, The Joker himself paid a visit, demanding complimentary accommodation in the Royal Jester's suite where he ordered everything off the menu of the Casino's 5-star restaurant before going down to the gambling hall to "mingle with [his public" where he proceeded to win vast quantities of cash in various card games. He then commandeered private use of the Casino's Luxury Bathhouse, soliciting six of the floor show girls to join him.

Remarkably enough, whilst some ten people were injured, The Clown Prince of Crime himself incurred no fatalities, an extremely rare occurrence for one of his sprees and one that has not been repeated since. On the other hand, Harley Quinn, his former psychiatrist and long time paramour and partner in crime, immediately murdered the six showgirls in a jealous rage. Popular Cable TV Psychologist Dr. Terry Shaeffer suggested at the time this was The Joker's ultimate objective when procuring the showgirls and the real reason behind his apparent harmlessness during his brief stay. She claimed that Joker has often been observed as having a fondness for manipulating people into committing antisocial acts and enjoying the ensuing chaos. He and Quinn were apprehended shortly after these murders when local authorities arrived to find them engaged in sexual intercourse in one of the spas surrounded by the bodies of the dead women.

The Joker's visit saw the Casino popularity rise to astronomical heights, making it the most visited Casino along the strip for three years running, leading to speculation from some corners that a possible deal between the career criminal and the Casino owners had been struck, especially as The Clown Prince has been noted in the past for responding violently to any who he perceived as "stealing" his gimmicks or profiting from his image. It has even been posited that he receives a percentage of all profits form the Casino. However, these speculations remain unsubstantiated.


	12. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Kenny whistled quietly to himself as he wheeled the trolley through the Maximum Security wing of the Asylum. Sure, the place was kinda creepy, but it was kinda fun as well. He already had a few awesome stories to tell his pals on the weekend and was anticipating adding the _pièce de résistance_now – an encounter with _The_ Joker.

He punched in the code for the Restricted Cells – _The Zoo_, as the other guards called this part of the Asylum – and wheeled the trolley in.

Despite himself, his hands were trembling with excitement and his whistle faltered as his lips grew dry.

He knew that The Joker's cell was the last one in the block and he had to fight back the urge to head straight there, forcing himself to stop at each cell in its turn, going through the rigmarole of advising the inmate within to stand facing against the far wall while he slipped their bundle of mail in through the slot fixed into the thick, shatter-proof glass.

He had to struggle to do each step properly, trying not to rush through the process, squirming with the effort to maintain his professionalism even as his breakfast rose up to his throat, its lingering taste tainted by the bitterness of bile. The Zoo was only half-full at that moment, with Poison Ivy, Two-Face and The Mad Hatter all at large.

Kenny passed by the cell of Inmate 825, aka Harley Quinn and could not resist a covert glance at the pretty, petite blonde, who huddled on her cot clutching to her breast a soft plush toy with green wool hair and a brilliant red smile. She was humming mindlessly to herself, her eyes rolled up in her head, lost to a delirium only she was privy to. She had received two letters that day, one in an envelope of red, the other in green, elaborately lettered. He found it interesting the people who sent the inmates mail paid so much attention to the details of it. He would never have thought to do such a thing – plain old lined notebook paper and a regular envelope for him. Not that he would ever have thought to write letters to nutsos like this, though.

Finally the job was done and Kenny was left with the trolley stacked with newspapers in tight plastic wrappers and a stack of some fifteen pieces of personal mail, all addressed to: _The Joker._

Despite himself, Kenny slowed down as he approached the final cell, the dim lights overhead reflecting off the glass and making it impossible to see within it until he drew up directly in front.

The Joker sat on his cot in the far corner of his cell, idling flipping a deck of cards through long, bone white fingers, his vivid green hair unstyled and tumbling messily over his forehead. Even sitting, his unusual height was obvious, the toes on the foot of his one stretched out leg almost brushing the edge of the mattress, the other leg propped up, half-obscuring his face. The Joker did not look up as the mail trolley wheels came to a slightly squealing halt, did not give any indication he was at all aware of Kenny's presence.

Kenny had to swallow around the lump in his throat. The aura of menace emanating from the lean, tall man swallowed up the air around him, seemingly making it difficult to breathe. "Your m-mail, Mr. Joker," he announced in a hesitant voice, then inwardly cursed himself for the stammer.

Then The Joker did look up, raising glittering, unnatural purple eyes slowly to lock directly with Kenny's own muddy-brown ones. Kenny felt his mouth go dry and his pulse speed up beneath his standard issue uniform as his palms began to sweat, leaving sticky prints on the small stack of envelopes he held.

Then The Joker smiled, a magnificent and harrowing grin splitting his features, a thousand laugh lines creasing his cold white flesh.

"Oh", said The Joker softly, his voice an icepick dragged along the hairs of Kenny's neck, "_Goody._"


	13. Author's Note

Just thought I'd finish this one off with a little author's note.

I think one of Mistah J's greatest and most underused skills is his ability to manipulate people. I believe Joker is a highly keen and astute observer of human psychology. He really 'gets' what makes people tick, even if he can't personally relate to it himself, being too beyond normal human emotion. But he's watched a lot and he's learned a lot and he likes to put what he learns into practice.

I think, given the right amount of time and circumstances, he could pretty much fuck anyone's head up. And to me, that's actually scarier than just mowing down a whole bunch of random people. Joker's little nudges being the flutter of a butterfly's wings leading to a tornado on the other side of the world is very intriguing, especially as Joker holds himself to be a master of chaos. Indeed, the embodiment of chaos.

I don't think Mistah J actually holds racist or homophobic or sexist or whatever opinions. I don't think he _cares_ about that sort of superficiality. He understands the development of those attitudes is simply a symptom of humanity's feeble-mindedness in the face of a perceived threat or something that's different.

It's that he actually has an ABSENCE of opinion on it all - it's just not important enough in his world for him to give it any thought. People are people and they can all scream in terror and horror.

If you know how to make them.

Essentially, Mistah J believes EVERYTHING is meaningless and humans have created this system of morality and judgement and based it on - nothing! Nothing at all except ignorance and fear.

Therefore, he sees very clearly that people judging another by the colour of their skin or their sex or sexual identity is patently ridiculous. But it doesn't outrage him that people do so.

It amuses him.

So, he will surely take advantage of these attitudes to play little games on the world, when given the opportunity.

True to his mercurial and capricious nature, in these letters he becomes exactly what his audience wants him to be, echoing their own belief and judgements to more keenly coax and encourage.

I imagine it would give him absolutely delirious delight to play with people in this way and then read about the effects his little antics have had.

Why then, did he not answer "Genesis"?

Simple. He could tell straight away that ignoring her completely was going to the best method of getting to her, of goading her into snapping. And, the result was rather spectacular. She certainly did snap.

I just thought it bore demonstrating that Mistah J is dangerous for so many more reasons than his high body count.


End file.
